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Conflict Zone
Don Pendleton


Nigeria is rich in oil, drugs and blood rivals–on both the domestic and international fronts. Mack Bolan's ticket into the chaos is a rescue operation involving the kidnapped daughter of an American petroleum executive.Her safe but violent return brings the warrior to phase two of his scorched-earth campaign against the escalating guerrilla violence in this country's delta state. Knowing that confused enemies mount ineffective defenses, Bolan launches multiple precision strikes, luring into the open hostile tribal factions vying for control of the oil fields. At the same time Chinese and Russian agents are cutting themselves in on the region's untapped fortune in oil. It's the kind of blood-and-thunder mission that Bolan fights best, the kind of war that keeps him in his element long enough to defeat the enemy and–with luck–get out alive.









“Change of plans,” Bolan snapped. “Follow me.”


The Executioner turned and raced with the hostage toward a line of vehicles. A shot rang out behind them, followed instantly by a dozen volleys.

Turning, Bolan raked the compound with a long burst from his Steyr AUG. Mandy fumbled with her pistol, getting off several shots, yelping as a round stung her palm.

Reaching the motor pool, Bolan chose a jeep at random, slid behind the wheel and gunned its engine into snarling life as Mandy scrambled into the shotgun seat.

“Hang on!” he said, flooring the gas pedal, barreling through the middle of the camp to reach the access road—and freedom.





Conflict Zone


Mack Bolan







Don Pendleton







www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


Pure good soon grows insipid, wants variety and spirit. Pain is a bitter-sweet, which never surfeits. Love turns, with a little indulgence, to indifference or disgust; hatred alone is immortal.

—William Hazlitt

“On the Pleasure of Hating” in

The Plain Speaker (1826)

I can’t stop hate. No one in history has come close, so far. But I can interrupt atrocities, beginning now.

—Mack Bolan

“The Executioner”


For Corporal Jason Dunham, USMC

April 14, 2004

God Keep




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE




PROLOGUE


Esosa Village, Delta State, Nigeria

David Uzochi had been fortunate. He’d left home an hour before dawn to hunt, and he had been rewarded with a herd of topi when his ancient Timex wristwatch told him it was 8:13 a.m.

With game in sight, it came down to his skill with the equally ancient .303-caliber Lee-Enfield bolt-action rifle he carried, its nine-pound weight as familiar to Uzochi as the curve of his wife’s hip or breast.

He’d nearly smiled, thinking how pleased Enyinnaya would be when he brought home the meat, but he had caught himself in time, before the twitch of his lip or glint of sunlight on his white teeth could betray him to the grazing topi.

His first shot had been the only one he needed. As the other topi dashed away frantically to save themselves, Uzochi had been swift to clean his kill. There was no time to waste, when flies appeared to find a wound almost before the skin was broken, and the brutal sun began corrupting flesh before the last heartbeat had time to fade away.

The four-mile walk back to Esosa was a good deal shorter than his outward journey, since he was no longer seeking game, and he wouldn’t rest once along the way, despite the forty-something kilograms of flesh and bone draping his left shoulder. Uzochi drew a kind of buoyancy from his success, doubly thankful that he had meat enough to share with some of his neighbors.

The sound of the explosion made him break stride, pausing long enough to lock on its apparent point of origin.

The pipeline. What else could it be?

He cursed the Itsekiri bastards who were almost certainly responsible. Their war against pipelines and the pumping fields meant less than nothing to Uzochi, but he understood the Itsekiris’ hatred for his people, the Ijaw. And if this raid had brought them near Esosa…

Any doubt was banished from Uzochi’s mind when he saw the first black plume of smoke against the clear sky. The pipeline passed within a thousand yards of his village, and how could any Itsekiri cutthroat neglect such a target when it was presented?

Uzochi began to run, jogging at first, until he stabilized the topi’s deadweight to his new pace, then accelerating. He couldn’t sprint with the topi across his shoulders, and he never once considered dropping it.

Whoever managed to survive the raid would still need food.

Tears blurred his vision as he ran, thinking of Enyinnaya in the Itsekiris’ hands. Perhaps she’d seen or heard them coming and had fled in time.

A distant crackling sound of gunfire, now.

The sudden pain he felt was like a knife blade being plunged into his heart. It didn’t slow him, rather the reverse, but in his wounded heart David Uzochi knew he was too late.

Too late to save the only woman he had ever loved.

Too late to save the child growing inside her.

But, perhaps, not too late for revenge.

If he’d forgotten where the village lay, Uzochi could have found it by the smoke. When he was still a half mile distant, he could smell the smoke and something else. A stench of burning flesh that killed his appetite and made his stomach twist inside him.

It was over by the time he reached Esosa. Twenty minutes since he’d heard the last gunshots, and by the time he stood in front of the smoking ruins of his home, even the dust raised by retreating murderers had settled back to earth.

Uzochi didn’t need the dust, though. He could track his enemies as he tracked game, with patience that assured him of a kill.

He would begin as soon as he had dug a grave for Enyinnaya and their unborn child. As soon as he had cooked a flank steak from the topi over glowing coals that once had been his home.

He needed strength for the pursuit.

Strength, and the ancient Lee-Enfield.

It meant his death to track the Itsekiri butchers, but he wouldn’t die alone.




CHAPTER ONE


Bight of Benin, Gulf of Guinea

They had flown out of Benin, from one of those airstrips where money talked and no one looked closely at the customers or cargo. In such places, it was better to forget the face and name of anyone you met—assuming any names were given—and rehearse the standard lines in case police came later, asking questions.

Which plane? What men? Why would white men come to me?

“One minute to the beach,” the pilot said. His voice was tinny through the earphones Mack Bolan wore.

The comment called for no response, and Bolan offered none. He focused on the blue-green water far below him and the coastline of Nigeria approaching rapidly. He saw the sprawling delta of the Niger River, which had lent its name both to the country and to Delta State.

His destination, more or less.

“Still time to cancel this,” Jack Grimaldi said from the pilot’s seat. He spoke with no conviction, knowing from experience that Bolan wouldn’t cancel anything, but giving him the option anyway.

“We’re good,” Bolan replied, still focused on the world beyond and several thousand feet below his windowpane.

From takeoff, at the airstrip west of Cotonou, they’d flown directly out to sea. The Bight—or Bay—of Benin was part of the larger Gulf of Guinea, itself a part of the Atlantic Ocean that created the “bulge” of northwestern Africa. Without surveyor’s tools, no one could say exactly where the Bight became the Gulf, and Bolan didn’t count himself among the very few who cared.

His focus lay inland, within Nigeria, the eastern next-door neighbor of Benin. His mission called for blood and thunder, striking fast and hard. There’d been no question of his flying into Lagos like an ordinary tourist, catching a puddle-jumper into Warri and securing a guide who’d lead him to the doorstep of an armed guerrilla camp, located forty miles or so northwest of the bustling oil city.

No question at all.

Aside from the inherent risk of getting burned or blown before he’d cleared Murtala Muhammed International Airport in Lagos, Bolan would have been traveling naked, without so much as a penknife at hand. Add weapons-shopping to his list of chores, and he’d likely find himself in a room without windows or exits, chatting with agents of Nigeria’s State Security Service.

No, thank you, very much.

Which brought him to the HALO drop.

It stood for High Altitude, Low Opening, the latter part a reference to Bolan’s parachute. HALO jumps, coupled with HAHO—high-opening—drops, were known in the trade as military free falls, each designed in its way to deliver paratroopers on target with minimal notice to enemies waiting below.

In HALO drops, the jumper normally bailed out above twenty thousand feet, beyond the range of surface-to-air missiles, and plummeted at terminal velocity—the speed where gravity’s pull canceled out drag’s resistance—then popped the chute somewhere below radar range. For purposes of stealth, metal gear was minimized, or masked with cloth in the case of weapons. Survival meant the jumper would breathe bottled oxygen until touchdown. In HAHO jumps, a GPS tracker would guide the jumper toward his target while he was airborne.

“Four minutes to step-off,” Grimaldi informed him.

With a quick “Roger that” through his stalk microphone, Bolan rose and moved toward the side door of the Beechcraft KingAir 350.

It was closed. Bolan donned his oxygen mask, then waited for Grimaldi to do likewise before he opened the door. They were cruising some eight thousand feet below the plane’s service ceiling of 35,000, posing a threat of hypoxia that reduced a human being’s span of useful consciousness to an average range of five to twelve minutes. Beyond that deadline lay dizziness, blurred vision and euphoria that wouldn’t fade until the body—or the aircraft—slammed headlong into Mother Earth.

When Grimaldi was masked and breathing easily, Bolan unlatched the aircraft’s door and slid it to his left, until it locked open. A sudden rush of wind threatened to suck him from the plane, but he hung on, biding his time.

He was dressed for the drop in an insulated polypropylene knit jumpsuit, which he’d shed and bury at the LZ. Beneath it, he wore jungle camouflage. Over the suit, competing with his parachute harness, Bolan wore combat suspenders and webbing laden with ammo pouches, canteens, cutting tools and a folding shovel. His primary weapon, a Steyr AUG assault rifle, was strapped muzzle-down to his left side, thereby avoiding the Beretta 93-R selective-fire pistol holstered on his right hip. To accommodate two parachutes—the main and reserve chutes, hedging his bets—Bolan’s light pack hung low, spanking him with every step.

“Two minutes,” Grimaldi said.

Bolan checked his wrist-mounted GPS unit, which resembled an oversize watch. It would direct him to his target, one way or another, but he had to do his part. That meant making the most of his free fall, steering his chute after he opened it, and finally avoiding any trouble on the ground until he’d found his mark.

Easy to say. Not always easy to accomplish.

At the thirty-second mark, Bolan removed his commo headpiece, leaving it to dangle by its curly cord somewhere behind him. He was ready in the open doorway, leaning forward for the push-off, when the clock ran down. He counted off the numbers in his head, hit zero in a rush and stepped into space.

Where he was literally blown away.



EIGHT SECONDS FELT like forever while tumbling head over heels in free fall. It took that long for Bolan to regain his bearings and stabilize his body—by which time he had plummeted 250 feet toward impact with the ground.

He checked his GPS unit again, peering through goggles worn to shield his eyes from being wind-blasted and withered in their sockets. Noting that he’d drifted something like a mile off target since he’d left the Beechcraft, he corrected, dipped his left shoulder and fought the wind that nearly slapped him through another barrel roll.

Lateral slippage brought him back on target, hurtling diagonally through space on a northwesterly course. Bolan couldn’t turn to check the Beechcraft’s progress, but he knew Grimaldi would be heading back to sea, reversing his direction in a wide loop over the Gulf of Guinea before returning to the airstrip in Benin, minus one passenger.

The airfield’s solitary watchman wouldn’t notice—or at least, he wouldn’t care. He had been paid half his fee up front, and would receive the rest when the Stony Man pilot was safely on the deck, with no police to hector him with questions. Whether he had dumped Bolan at sea or flown him to the Kasbah, it meant less than nothing to the Beninese.

Twenty seconds in and he had dropped another 384 feet, while covering perhaps four hundred yards in linear distance. His target lay five miles and change in front of him, concealed by treetops, but he didn’t plan to cover all that distance in the air.

What goes up had to go down.

Bolan couldn’t have said exactly when he reached terminal velocity, but the altimeter clipped to his parachute harness kept him apprised of his distance from impact with terra firma.

Eleven minutes after leaping from the Beechcraft, Bolan yanked the rip cord to deploy his parachute. He’d packed the latest ATPS canopy—Advanced Tactical Parachute System, in Army lingo—a cruciform chute designed to cut his rate of descent by some thirty percent. Which meant, in concrete terms, he’d only be dropping at twenty feet per second, with a twenty-five-percent reduction in potential injury.

Assuming that it worked.

The first snap nearly caught him by surprise, as always, with the harness biting at his crotch and armpits. At a thousand feet and dropping, he was well below the radar that would track Grimaldi’s plane through its peculiar U-turn, first inland, then back to sea again.

And what would any watchers make of that, even without a Bolan sighting on their monitors? Knowing the aircraft hadn’t landed, would they then assume that it had dropped cargo or personnel, and send a squad of soldiers to investigate?

Perhaps.

But if they went to search the point where the Stony Man pilot had turned, they would be missing Bolan by some ten or fifteen miles.

With any luck, it just might be enough.

He worked the steering lines, enjoying the sensation as he swooped across the sky, with Africa’s landscape scrolling beneath his feet. Each second brought it closer, but he wasn’t simply falling down. Each heartbeat also carried Bolan northward, closer to his target and the goal of his assignment, swiftly gaining ground.

Four hundred feet above the ground, the treetops didn’t look like velvet anymore. Their limbs and trunks were clearly solid objects that could flay the skin from Bolan’s body, crush his bones, drive shattered ribs into his heart and lungs. Or, he might escape injury while fouling his chute on the upper branches of a looming giant, dangling a hundred feet or more above the jungle floor.

Best to avoid the trees entirely, if he could, and drop into a clearing when he found one. If he found one.

While Bolan looked for an LZ, he also watched for people on the ground below him. Beating radar scanners with his HALO drop didn’t mean he was free and clear, if someone saw him falling from the sky and passed word on to the army or MOPOL, the mobile police branch of Nigeria’s national police force.

Bolan wouldn’t fire on police—a self-imposed restriction he’d adopted at the onset of his one-man war against the Mafia a lifetime earlier—and he hadn’t dropped in from the blue to play tag in the jungle with a troop of soldiers who’d be pleased to shoot first and ask questions later, if at all.

Better by far if he was left alone to go about his business unobstructed.

Bolan saw a clearing up ahead, two hundred yards and closing. He adjusted his direction and descent accordingly, hung on and watched the mossy earth come up to meet him in a rush.



GRIMALDI DIDN’T like the plan, but, hey, what else was new? Each time he ferried Bolan to another drop zone, he experienced the fear that this might be their last time out together, that he’d never see the warrior’s solemn face again.

And that he’d be to blame.

Not in the sense of taking out his oldest living friend, but rather serving Bolan up to those who would annihilate him without thinking twice. A kind of Meals on Wings for cannibals.

That was ridiculous, of course. Grimaldi knew it with the portion of his mind that processed rational, sequential thoughts. But knowing and believing were sometimes very different things.

Granted, he could have begged off, passed the job to someone else, but what would that accomplish? Nothing beyond handing Bolan to a stranger who would get him to the slaughterhouse on time, without a fare-thee-well. At least Grimaldi understood what had been asked of Bolan, every time his friend took on another mission that could be his last.

The morbid turn of thought left the ace pilot disgusted with himself. He tried to shake it off, whistled a snatch of something tuneless for a moment, then gave up on that and watched the Gulf of Guinea passing underneath him. Were the people in the boats craning their necks, tracking his engine sounds and following his progress overhead? Was one of them, perhaps, a watcher who had seen the Beechcraft earlier, reported it to other watchers on dry land, and now logged his return?

It was a possibility, of course, but there was nothing he could do about it. Radar would have marked his plane’s arrival in Nigerian airspace and tracked him to the inland point where he had turned. The natural assumption would be that he’d dropped something or someone; the mystery only began there.

Or, at least, so he was hoping.

Nigeria imported and exported drugs. According to reports Grimaldi had seen from the Nigerian Drug Law Enforcement Agency, Colombian cocaine and heroin from Afghanistan came in via South Africa, while home-grown marijuana was exported by the ton. Police, as usual, bagged ten percent or more of the illicit cargoes flowing back and forth across their borders, when they weren’t hired to protect the shipments.

So, they might think he had dropped a load of drugs.

And then what?

It was sixty-forty that they’d order someone to investigate the theoretical drop zone, which meant relaying orders from headquarters to some outpost in the field. Maybe the brass in Lagos would reach out to their subordinates in Warri, who in turn would form a squad to roll out, have a look around, then report on what they found.

Which should be nothing.

If they went looking for drugs, they’d check the area where Grimaldi had turned his plane, then backtrack for a while along his flight path, coming or going, to see if they’d missed anything. There were no drugs to find, so they’d go home empty-handed and pissed off at wasting their time.

But if they weren’t looking for drugs…

He knew the search might be conducted differently if the Nigerians went looking for intruders. Whether they were educated on HALO techniques or not, they had to know that men manipulating parachutes could travel farther than a bale of cargo dropping from the sky, and that the men, once having landed, wouldn’t wait around for searchers to locate them.

It would be a different game, then, with a different cast of players. MOPOL still might be involved, but it was also possible that Bolan could be up against the State Security Service, the Defense Intelligence Agency or the competing National Intelligence Agency. The SSS was Nigeria’s FBI, in effect, widely accused of domestic political repression, while the NIA was equivalent to America’s CIA, and the DIA handled military intelligence.

In the worst-case scenario, Grimaldi supposed that all three agencies might decide to investigate his drop-in, with MOPOL agents thrown in for variety. And how many hunters could Bolan evade before his luck ran out?

Grimaldi’s long experience with Bolan, starting as a kidnap “victim” and continuing thereafter as a friend and willing ally, had taught him not to underestimate the Executioner’s abilities. No matter what the odds arrayed against him, the Sarge had always managed to emerge victorious.

So far.

But he was only human, after all.

One hell of a human, for sure, but still human.

Grimaldi trusted Bolan to succeed, no matter the task he was assigned. But if he fell along the way, revenge was guaranteed.

The pilot swore it on his soul, whatever that was worth.

He didn’t know jackshit about Nigeria, beyond the obvious. It was a state in Africa, beset by poverty—yet oil rich—disease and chaos verging on the point of civil war, where he would stand out like a sore white thumb. But the official language was English, because of former colonial rule, so he wouldn’t be stranded completely.

And if Bolan didn’t make it out, Grimaldi would be going on a little hunting trip.

An African safari, right.

He owed the big guy that, at least.

And Jack Grimaldi always paid his debts.



TOUCHDOWN WAS better than Bolan had any right to expect after stepping out of an airplane and plummeting more than 24,000 feet to Earth. He bent his knees, tucked and rolled as they’d taught him at Green Beret jump school back in the old days, and came up with only a few minor bruises to show for the leap.

Only bruises so far.

Step two was covering his tracks and getting out of there before some hypothetical pursuer caught his scent and turned his drop into a suicide mission.

Bolan took it step by step, with all due haste. He shed the parachute harness first thing, along with his combat webbing and weapons. Next, he stripped off the jumpsuit that had saved him from frostbite while soaring, but which now felt like a baked potato’s foil wrapper underneath the Nigerian sun. That done, he donned the combat rigging once again and went to work.

Fourth step, reel in the parachute and all its lines, compacting same into the smallest bundle he could reasonably manage. That done, he unsheathed his folding shovel and began to dig.

It didn’t have to be a deep grave, necessarily. Just deep enough to hide his jumpsuit, helmet, bottled oxygen and mask, the chute and rigging. If some kind of nylon-eating scavenger he’d never heard of came along and dug it up that night, so be it. Bolan would be long gone by that time, his mission either a success or a resounding, fatal failure.

More than depth, he would require concealment for the burial, in case someone came sniffing after him within the next few hours. To that end, he dug his dump pit in the shadow of a looming mahogany some thirty paces from the clearing where he’d landed, and spent precious time re-planting ferns he had disturbed during the excavation when he’d finished.

It wasn’t perfect—nothing man-made ever was—but it would do.

He had a four-mile hike ahead of him, through forest that had so far managed to escape the logger’s ax and chainsaw. As he understood it from background research, Nigeria, once in the heart of West Africa’s rain forest belt, had lost ninety-five percent of its native tree cover and now imported seventy-five percent of the lumber used in domestic construction. Some conservationists believed that there would be no forests left in the country by 2020, a decade and change down the road toward Doomsday.

That kind of slash-and-burn planning was seen throughout Africa, in agriculture, mineral prospecting, environmental protection, disease control—you name it. The native peoples once ruled and exploited by cruel foreign masters now seemed hell-bent on turning their ancestral homeland into a vision of post-apocalyptic hell, sacrificing Mother Nature on the twin altars of profit and national pride.

Of course, the foreigners were still involved, and if they didn’t always have traditional white faces, they were every bit as rapacious as Belgium’s old King Leopold or Germany’s Kaiser Wilhelm. Africa still had treasures to steal or buy cheaply, and Nigeria’s main claim to fame was petroleum.

Which brought Bolan’s mind back front and center to his mission as he slogged through a forest whose upper canopy steamed, while its floor lay in warm, muggy shade.

The oil rush was on in Nigeria, had been for years now, and like any mineral boom, it spawned winners and losers. The haves and have-nots. In Nigeria’s case, the have-nots—or rather, some of them—had taken up arms to demand a piece of the action. Barring concessions that pleased them, they aimed to make life untenable for the haves.

Which led to Bolan traveling halfway around the world, sleeping on planes and later jumping out of one to drop from more than four miles high and land on hostile ground where he’d be hunted by both sides, if either one detected him.

All for a young woman he’d never met or heard of previously, whom he’d never really get to know, and whom he’d never see again if he pulled off the job at hand and saved her life.

The really weird part, from a “normal” individual’s perspective, was that none of it seemed strange to Bolan. Hell, it wasn’t even new. The maps and faces changed, of course, but it was what Mack Bolan did.

Well, some of what he did.

The rest of it was killing, plain but often far from simple. He’d received the Executioner nickname the hard way, earning it. A few had nearly rivaled Bolan’s record as a sniper when he wore his country’s uniform.

As for the rest, forget it.

If there was another fighting man or woman who could match his body count since Bolan had retired from military service to pursue a one-man war, it ranked among the best-kept secrets of all time.

He had a job to do, now, in Nigeria. Helping a total stranger out of trouble.

And there would be blood.




CHAPTER TWO


Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Thirty-three hours prior to touchdown in Nigeria, Bolan had cruised along Skyline Drive in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains, watching the marvels of nature scroll past his windows. As always, he knew that the drive was only the start of another long journey.

His destination that morning wasn’t the end.

It was a launching pad.

He blanked that out and took the Blue Ridge drive for what it was: a small slice of serenity within a life comprising primarily tension, violent action and occasional side trips into Bizarro Land.

Bolan enjoyed the drive, the trees and ferns flanking the two-lane blacktop, and the chance of seeing deer or other wildlife while en route. He’d never been a hunter in the “sporting” sense, and while he’d never thought of carrying a placard for the other side, it pleased him to see animals alive and well, wearing the skins or feathers they were born with.

When you’d dropped the hammer on enough men, he supposed, the “game” of killing lost its dubious appeal.

But stalking human predators, well, that was Bolan’s job. And it would never end, as long as he survived.

So be it. He had made a choice, in full knowledge that there could be no turning back, no change of mind or heart once the decision was translated into action. Bolan was the Executioner, and always would be.

War without end. Amen.

Which didn’t mean he couldn’t stop and smell the roses when he had the opportunity. What was he fighting for, if not the chance to lead a better and more peaceful life?

Of course, he fought for others. Sacrificed his future, in effect. There’d be no wife and kiddies, no white picket fence, no PTA meetings or Christmas parties at the nine-to-five office. No pension or gold watch when he’d put in his time.

Just death.

And he’d already had a preview of his own, stage-managed in Manhattan by the same folks who had built the installation that lay five or six miles down the scenic route.

Mack Bolan was no more.

Long live the Executioner.



BOLAN CLEARED security without a hitch. He passed a tractor harrowing one of the fields on his left as he drove toward the main house. Stony Man was a working farm, which paid some of the bills and supported its cover, since aerial photos would show cultivated fields and farmhands pursuing their normal duties.

Those photos wouldn’t reveal that the workers were extremely motivated cops and members of America’s elite military teams—Navy SEALs, Special Forces, Army Rangers, Marine Corps Force Recon—who spent duty rotations at Stony Man under a lifetime oath of secrecy. All armed. All dangerous.

There were risks involved in spying on Stony Man Farm. Each aircraft passing overhead was monitored on radar and by other means. If one appeared too nosy, there were means for dealing with the problem.

They included Stinger ground-to-air missiles and a dowdy-looking single-wide mobile home planted in the middle of the Farm’s airstrip. If friendly aircraft were expected, a tractor pulled the mobile home aside to permit landing. If intruders tried to land uninvited, the trailer not only blocked the runway, but could drop its walls on hinges to reveal quad-mounted TM-134 miniguns, each six-barreled weapon capable of firing four thousand 7.62 mm rounds per second.

Fifty yards out from the farmhouse, Bolan recognized Hal Brognola and Barbara Price waiting for him on the wide front porch. A couple of young shirtless warriors in blue jeans and work boots were painting the upper story of the house, a procedure that Bolan had never observed before. He caught Price glancing his way and couldn’t help smiling.

The home team waited for him where they stood. Bolan climbed the three porch steps and shook their hands in turn. Price’s greeting was professional, giving no hint of all the times they’d shared a bed in his upstairs quarters at the Farm, when he was passing through.

“Good trip?” Brognola asked, as always.

“Uneventful,” Bolan answered.

“That’s the best kind. Join us in the War Room?”

Bolan nodded, then followed Brognola and Price inside.

The War Room occupied roughly one-quarter of the farmhouse’s basement level. It was basically a high-tech conference room, with all the audiovisual bells and whistles, but Brognola had always called it the War Room, since discussions held around its meeting table always ended with an order to destroy some target that duly constituted authorities found themselves unable to touch by legitimate means.

Sooner or later, it came down to war.

Bolan supposed that somewhere in the Farm’s computer database there was a tally of the lives that had been terminated based on orders issued in that room. Bolan had never made a point of keeping score, and didn’t plan on starting now, but sometimes he got curious.

The Farm wasn’t his sole preserve. It issued orders to the fighting men of Able Team and Phoenix Force, as well, while dabbling here and there in God knew what covert attempts by other agencies to hold the savages at bay. Sometimes—most times—it worked, but only in the short-term. In the long war of Good versus Evil, whoever laid down the ground rules, there was no final victory, no irredeemable defeat.

There was only the struggle.

And it was about to resume.

Aaron Kurtzman—“the Bear” to his friends—was waiting when they reached the War Room, seated in the motorized wheelchair that was his chief mode of conveyance since a bullet in the back had left him paralyzed from the waist down. That had occurred during a raid on Stony Man, initiated by a traitor in the upper levels of the CIA, and it accounted for the ultrastrict security that cloaked the Farm today.

“I won’t ask you about your trip,” Kurtzman said, smiling as he put the crunch on Bolan’s hand.

Brognola humphed at that, making the others smile, then said, “Consistency’s a virtue.”

“Absolutely,” Price told him as she took her usual seat. “No one would ever doubt your virtue, Hal.”

“In my day, civilized discourse required amenities,” Brognola said. “But hey, screw it. Let’s get to work, shall we?”

“Sounds good,” Bolan replied, smiling.

“What do you know about Nigeria?” Brognola asked.

“It’s in West Africa,” Bolan said. “Ruled by France, then Britain, until independence in the early sixties. Trouble with Biafra in the same decade. There’s oil, and everybody wants it. Drugs, coming and going. Tribal conflict verging on a civil war at times, and throw in some religious upheaval. Advance-fee frauds that go around the world through e-mail. Bribes are the order of the day, never mind corruption. That’s it, in a nutshell.”

“You’ve hit all the basics,” the big Fed acknowledged. “Are you up to speed on MEND?”

“Guerrillas. Terrorists. The acronym escapes me at the moment,” Bolan said.

“You’re still well ahead of the norm,” Brognola said. “It’s the Movement for Emancipation of the Niger Delta, waging armed resistance against the federal government and foreign oil companies. You’ve heard of Marion King Hubbert?”

“No,” Bolan replied. “Can’t say I have.”

“No sweat. He died in 1989,” the big Fed stated. “A geo-physicist with Shell Oil, out of Houston, best known for his theories on capacity of oil and natural gas reserves. It boils down to what they call Hubbert Peak Theory.”

“Which is?” Bolan coaxed.

“Bare bones, the idea that Earth and every part of it have finite petro-gas reserves. Extraction supposedly follows a bell curve, increasing until pumping hits the ‘Hubbert peak,’ and then declining after that.”

“Sounds right,” Bolan replied. “They aren’t making any more dinosaurs.”

“So true,” Brognola said. “Anyway, the word from so-called experts at State is that MEND wants to create an ‘artificial Hubbert peak,’ whatever the hell that means. I don’t claim to understand it, but one of MEND’s spokesmen—a character calling himself Major-General Godswill Tammo—says the group plans to seize total control of the oil reserves in Delta State.”

“How are they doing so far?” Bolan asked.

“They haven’t captured any fields or pumping stations, but it’s not for lack of trying,” Brognola replied. “Their main deal, at the moment, is attacking pipelines, storage tanks, whatever they can reach. Also, they’re big on snatching CEOs and members of their families, whenever they can find an opening. Which brings us to the job at hand.”

Bolan sat quietly, waiting.

“Bear, if you please,” the big Fed prompted.

A screen behind Brognola came to life, displaying a candid photo of a ruddy-faced, balding corporate type wearing a tailored suit that Bolan knew was expensive.

“Jared Ross,” Brognola said by way of introduction. “He’s an executive V.P. in charge of production for K-Tech Petroleum, based in Warri. That’s a Delta State oil town, with roughly one-fifth of the state’s four-point-seven million people. Most of the foreign oil companies working in Nigeria have their headquarters in Warri, operating refineries at Ekpan, more or less next door.”

Bolan made the connection, saying, “He’s been kidnapped?”

“Not exactly. First, some background on the local tribes. They’re mainly Itsekiri and Ijaw, with Ijaw outnumbering the Itsekiri something like nine million to four hundred and fifty thousand. Anyway, for centuries they seemed to get along okay, but back in 1997 some genius in Lagos created an Ijaw government council, then put its headquarters in the heart of Itsekiri turf, in Warri. Maybe the result was intentional. Who knows? Long story short, when the smoke cleared, hundreds were dead and half a dozen petro installations had been occupied by rebels, cutting back production until soldiers took them out. MEND got its start from there, and in addition to the oil issue, you now have tribal warfare going full-blast in a region where they once had peace.”

Kurtzman spoke up, saying, “Beware the Feds who say, ‘We’re here to help.’”

“Which would be us, in this case,” Brognola replied. “Except the government in Lagos doesn’t know it, and we weren’t invited.”

“What’s the angle?” Bolan asked.

“You nearly had it when you asked if Jared Ross was kidnapped. It’s his daughter,” Brognola elaborated as another photo filled the screen.

Bolan saw a young woman in her late teens, maybe early twenties, smiling for the camera. She was blond and blue-eyed, fresh-faced, living the American dream. Bolan hoped it hadn’t turned into a dead-end nightmare.

“How long ago?” he asked.

“Last week,” Brognola said. “Six days and counting, now.”

“Do they have proof of life?”

“Seems so. The ransom note was flexible. MEND will accept a hundred million dollars for her safe return, or K-Tech’s pull-out from Nigeria.”

“That’s optimistic,” Bolan said.

“It’s fantasy. And Daddy doesn’t trust the local law to get her back. At least, not in one piece and breathing.”

So that’s where I come in, Bolan thought.

“I’ve got a CD file with all the players covered,” Brognola informed him, “if you want to look it over on your own.”

“Sounds good,” Bolan replied. “When would I have to leave?”

He already knew the answer, nodding as Brognola frowned and said, “They should’ve had us on it from day one. Let’s say ASAP.”



ALONE IN THE second-floor bedroom he used when at the Farm, Bolan read through Brognola’s files on his laptop. He started with background on Jared and Mandy Ross, found nothing unique or remarkable on either, and moved on to meet his opposition.

MEND, as Brognola had noted, was the source of most guerrilla violence in Delta State, but pinning down its leadership was problematic. An anonymous online article from The Economist, published in September 2008, described MEND as a group that “portrays itself as political organisation that wants a greater share of Nigeria’s oil revenues to go to the impoverished region that sits atop the oil. In fact, it is more of an umbrella organisation for several armed groups, which it sometimes pays in cash or guns to launch attacks.” It’s so-called war against pollution, Bolan saw, consisted in large part of dynamiting pipelines, each of which then fouled the area with another flood of oil. And more often than not hundreds of villagers perished while collecting the free oil, engulfed in flames from inevitable explosions.

According to the files Brognola had provided, two men seemed to dominate the hostile tribal factions that were presently at war in Delta State. Ekon Afolabi led the Itsekiri militants, a thirty-six-year-old man who’d been in trouble with the law since he was old enough to steal. Somewhere along the way, he had discovered ethnic pride and politics. Depending on the point of view, he’d either learned to fake the former, or was using it to make himself the Next Big Thing within his sphere of influence.

The candid shots of Afolabi showed a wiry man of average height, with close-cropped hair, a wild goatee and dark skin. In addition to tribal markings, his scrabble to the top, or thereabouts, had left him scarred in ways that would be useful for identifying his cadaver, but which didn’t seem to slow him in any kind of violent confrontation.

Afolabi’s second in command was Taiwo Babatunde, a hulk who nearly dwarfed his boss at six foot three and some three hundred pounds, but from his photos and the file Bolan surmised that Babatunde lacked the wits required to plot a palace coup, much less to pull it off and run the tribal army on his own. Call him the boss man’s strong right arm, a blunt tool that would flatten Afolabi’s opposition on demand.

And likely have a great time doing it.

The file named Afolabi’s soldiers as prime suspects in a dozen oil field raids, at least that many pipeline bombings and the murder of a newscaster from Delta Rainbow Television Warri who had criticized MEND for its violence. Communiqués demanding ransom for the safe return of Mandy Ross, while carefully anonymous, had been dissected by the FBI’s profiling team at Quantico, who claimed that certain trademark phrases ID’d Afolabi as their author.

Bolan hoped the Feds were right.

The Ijaw tribal opposition’s leader was Agu Ajani, turning twenty-nine next week, if he survived that long. He was another bad guy from the get-go, and while anyone could blame it on his childhood—orphaned at age four, warehoused by the state, then written off the first time he went AWOL, living hand-to-mouth among eight million strangers on the streets of Lagos—Bolan only cared about Ajani’s actions in the here and now.

By all accounts, he was a ruthless killer with a clear sadistic streak, one of the sort who’d rather leave his enemies shorthanded, courtesy of a machete or meat cleaver, than to kill them outright. Which was not to say he hadn’t put his share of bodies in the ground. Official sources credited his Ijaw faction with a thousand kills and counting in the ethnic war that ravaged Delta State.

In photos, Ajani didn’t look the part. He favored floral-patterned shirts, the tourist kind, with short sleeves showing off his slender arms. A missing pinky finger on his left hand told the story of a near-miss in a knife fight, but he’d won that scrap and every one thereafter.

Up to now.

If Ekon Afolabi’s number two was a behemoth, Ajani’s was a smaller version of himself, some thirty pounds lighter and three or four inches shorter, with a bland face that belied his rap sheet. Daren Jumoke was a suspect in half a dozen murders before he turned political and started killing in the name of his people. Jumoke’s “civilian” victims had been women, who were also raped. Bolan guessed that his juvenile record, if such things existed where he was going, would reveal a violent bully with a hyperactive sex drive and a deaf ear when it came to females saying no.

Killing Jumoke, Bolan thought, would be a public service. As it was, his gang apparently had no connection to the Ross kidnapping—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t find a way to use them in a pinch, maybe as cannon fodder to distract his Itsekiri opposition.

Bolan was starting to read about his native contact in Warri, one Obinna Umaru, when a muffled rapping on his door distracted him. He answered it and smiled at finding Barbara Price on his threshold.

“Finished your homework yet?” she asked.

“Almost.”

“I don’t want to distract you.”

“I could use a break,” he said, and stood aside.

She brushed against him, passing, and it sent a tingle racing through his body, as if he had touched a bare low-voltage wire.

“So, Africa again,” she said. “Your shots all up-to-date? Dengue fever? Yellow fever? Typhoid?”

“My rabies shot is out of date,” he told her.

“Don’t let anybody bite you, then.”

“I’ll make a note. Coffee?”

“It keeps me up all night,” she said, and smiled. “You have a few cups, though.”

“Will I be needing it?” he asked.

“Homework. You said it wasn’t finished.”

It was Bolan’s turn to smile. “Now that I think of it, I’ve barely started.”

“It’s best to be thorough.”

“I hear you.” Still smiling, he said, “Maybe I ought to take a shower first. To freshen up and clear my head.”

“Sounds good,” she said, hands rising to the buttons of her blouse. “I have to tell you, I’ve been feeling dirty all day long.”




CHAPTER THREE


Delta State, Nigeria

Bolan smelled the Itsekiri camp before he saw it. Supper cooking and open latrines, gasoline and diesel fuel, gun oil and unwashed bodies.

The unmistakable odors of men at war.

He had to watch for lookouts, as well as snares and booby traps. MEND’s rebels knew that they were hunted by the state, and by their tribal adversaries. They’d be foolish not to post guards on the camp’s perimeter, but Bolan wouldn’t know how thorough they had been until he tested the defenses for himself.

Beginning now.

There’d be no cameras or other electronic gear, of course. He would’ve heard a generator running by the time he closed the gap to half a mile, and there was nothing on the wind but human voices and the clanking, clattering that no large group of humans in the wild seemed able to avoid. So much the better for his own quiet approach, if he could spot the posted guards and take them down without a fuss.

He found the first one watering the ferns, his rifle propped against a nearby tree, well out of splatter range. The guy was actually humming to himself, eyes closed and head thrown back, enjoying one of nature’s little pleasures.

It was easy, then, when Bolan stepped up close behind him, clapped a hand over his mouth and gave his head a twist, driving the black blade of his Ka-Bar fighting knife into the lookout’s throat. One thrust dealt with the vocal cords, the right carotid artery and jugular, ensuring silence even as it robbed the brain of vital oxygen and sent the guard’s lifeblood spouting in a geyser that would only stop when there was no more left for atricles and ventricles to pump.

Which took about two minutes.

Bolan didn’t wait around to watch. He left the dead-man-gasping where he lay, scooped up his battle-worn Kalashnikov, and moved on through the forest shadows, looking for his next target.

Not victim, since—in Bolan’s mind at least—human predators invited mayhem with their daily actions, through their very lifestyle. He had no time for philosophical discussions with the folks who claimed that “every life has value” or that “everyone deserves a second chance.”

Some lives, based on objective evidence, were worse than useless. They spread pain and misery every day that they continued. Most had scorned a thousand chances to reform and find a place within the millieu known as civilized society. They had not merely failed, but rather had defiantly refused to play the game by any rules except their own.

And when they couldn’t be controlled, when the prisons couldn’t hold them, when they set themselves above humanity and any common decency, they earned a visit from the Executioner.

He couldn’t reach them all, of course—only the worst of those who came to his attention, who were physically accessible and whose predation took priority over the other millions of corrupt, sadistic scum who flourished all around the globe.

Right here, right now, he had a job to do.

The second guard wasn’t exactly napping, but he had allowed his mind to wander, maybe thinking of his next trip into Warri, all the sex and liquor he’d enjoy when his commanders let him off his leash. A party to remember when they shipped him off to raid another oilfield, blow another pipeline, blitz another Ijaw village to the ground.

The pipe dream ended with a subtle sound behind him, not alarming, but enough to make the young man turn, one eyebrow raised, to check it out. Both eyebrows vaulted toward his hairline as a strong hand clutched his throat and slammed him back against the nearest tree before the Ka-Bar’s blade ripped through his diaphragm to find his heart.

Two down. How many left?

Bolan moved on, seeking more targets—and the one life he had come to save.



THERE WAS A POINT where even fear became mundane, when human flesh and senses had to let go of panic or collapse. No conscious choice determined when the mind and soul had had enough. No individual could say with any certainty what his or her limit was, and resolve to fear no more.

But on her seventh morning of captivity, when Mandy Ross awoke from fitful sleep, she realized that somehow she was less afraid than she had been on waking yesterday. She had survived another night intact, and misty daylight lancing through the forest shadows didn’t bring the sense of waking terror that had been her only real emotion for the past six days.

Of course, she was afraid, convinced the worst still lay ahead of her, but there was nothing she could do about it. It was all out of her hands.

For instance, Mandy’s captors hadn’t raped her yet, although she recognized the looks they gave her, and she didn’t need a crash course in whatever dialect they spoke to understand what some of them were saying when they flashed grins in her direction.

It was coming, she supposed. And so was death.

The leader of her kidnappers had made that crystal-clear. If K-Tech Petroleum didn’t meet their demands, she would be killed. Not merely shot or stabbed, mind you, but hacked up into pieces while alive, the odd bits mailed off to her father and to K-Tech’s various directors as an object lesson in obedience.

The problem, simply stated, was that while her father was a wealthy man, he didn’t have a hundred million dollars or the prospects for obtaining it by any means before the deadline imposed by her captors ran out. And even though he was in charge of K-Tech’s operations in Nigeria, he obviously couldn’t grant the kidnappers’ alter-native demand, for a company pull-out. Even if he lost his mind and tried to order an evacuation of all K-Tech workers from the country, he’d be countermanded by his bosses in a heartbeat, either fired or placed on leave until he had regained his senses.

Nope.

The way it looked to Mandy Ross, she was as good as dead.

The thing, now, was to face her death as bravely as she could—or maybe hasten it along herself, before the goons who’d snatched her took it in their pointy little heads to stage an orgy with her as the guest of dishonor.

They hadn’t left her much in terms of weapons, but she’d thought about the problem long and hard over the past few days, as it became more and more obvious that she would never leave the rebel camp alive.

She had no blades or cutting tools of any kind, no rope or any other kind of ligature with which to hang herself, no toxic substances that she could swallow in a pinch. Childhood experience had taught her that you couldn’t suffocate yourself by force of will alone, holding your breath. At some point, you passed out and started breathing automatically, as nature reasserted its control.

But she had teeth, and with some effort she supposed that she could reach the same veins in her wrists that other suicides accessed with knives and razors. It would hurt like hell, but only for a little while. When her only other option was to wait around until she was gang-raped, then fileted alive, well, anyone who thought that was a choice needed to have his or her head examined.

The only question, now, was how long she should wait.

How much time did she have?

To hell with it, she thought. There’s no time like the present. Get it done.



NIGHT FELL HARD in a tropical country. There was no dusk to speak of, no romantic twilight. Having screened most of the sun from ground level, casting massive shadows all day long, the great trees played their final trick at sundown, producing the illusion of a switch thrown by a giant to put out the lights.

Bolan had witnessed the effect on four continents and knew what to expect. He’d almost reached the campground clearing when he lost daylight, and only needed moments for his night eyes to adjust.

Three guards lay dead behind him, in the forest, which cleared roughly one-quarter of the camp’s perimeter. He hoped it would be all he needed, but he didn’t have an exit strategy so far, and wouldn’t until he had found out where the MEND terrorists were confining Mandy Ross. From there, once she was extricated from whichever hut or tent they kept her in, he could decide on how to flee.

A narrow unpaved road allowed the rebels access to the world beyond their forest hideout, passable for Jeeps, dirt bikes and—if it didn’t rain too hard—the ancient army cargo truck that stood out in the compound’s motor pool. Bolan had no idea where following that track might lead him, and he filed it as a last resort, without trying to guess.

He had considered that he might find Mandy Ross already dead or hurt so badly that she couldn’t travel. Even with real soldiers, passions sometimes flared out of control, resulting in atrocities. If that turned out to be the case, Bolan could switch from rescue to revenge mode in a heartbeat. And whatever he might see inside the camp, he’d keep to himself, most definitely never sharing with the victim’s family.

How much could one endure and still go on?

It all depended on the person, both their outward strength and inner fortitude. Some persevered while others crumbled and surrendered, let themselves be swept away. He had no take on Mandy Ross, as yet—except that nothing in her affluent and privileged life would have prepared her for her present circumstance.

Scanning the camp with practiced eyes, he noted points of interest: the command post, the motor pool, a commo tent with a pole-mounted satellite dish for some kind of battery-powered commo setup. The men slept in puptents or out in the open, but one other hut caught his eye.

The only one with a sentry outside it.

If that wasn’t the camp’s one-room jail, then what was it?

Bolan was determined to find out.

He had begun to move in that direction, following the tree line still, using the shadows, when he saw one of the MEND gunners heading for the guarded hut. He was five-nine or -ten, wiry and muscular, bearing a metal plate of food, wearing a pistol on his right hip and a sheathed machete on the left. Bolan watched him dismiss the guard after some muffled talk that almost sounded like an argument.

The guard left, and the plate-bearer entered the hut. Before he closed the door, Bolan had time to glimpse the startled face of Mandy Ross.



“WHAT DO YOU want?” Mandy Ross asked.

“I’ve brought your supper,” the grinning gunman said.

“I’m not hungry,” she replied, and almost giggled, thinking, I’ll just nibble on my wrists tonight, if you don’t mind.

“You must keep up your strength,” the intruder said, still smiling.

She recognized him as an officer, second or third in charge of things around the camp. His name was James Something-or-other, which would have surprised her if she hadn’t spent the two weeks prior to her abduction meeting Africans with Anglo given names who were her father’s business colleagues. As it was, she focused on her captor’s face and words without distractions.

“Strength for what?” she asked him. “Are we marching somewhere?”

“Marching? No.” He laughed at that. “But after being kept so long in this place, you must need some exercise.”

She saw where he was headed, his dark eyes sliding up and down her body like a physical caress, and tried to head him off.

“I’m fine.”

“Indeed, you are,” James Something instantly agreed.

“Thanks for the food,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll eat my monkey meat alone.”

“Tonight is lizard, I believe,” he said. “Perhaps you need something to stimulate your appetite.”

“No, thanks, all the same.”

“But I insist.”

Still keeping up the smile, James looked around her tiny cell, as if expecting that it would have sprouted decorations other than the folding cot that was its only furniture. She guessed that he was looking for someplace to set the plate. At last, he turned back toward the door and placed it on the hut’s dirt floor.

“Perhaps you’ll want it afterward,” he said.

“You’re making a mistake,” Mandy reminded him. “Your boss laid down the hands-off rule.”

James shrugged. “What he does not know, will not hurt him. It will be our little secret.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“I can guarantee it,” James replied, resting his left hand on the hilt of his machete. “Even if I must remove your tongue.”

“He’d never notice that, I guess.” She fairly sneered at him.

“Accidents happen. Possibly, you tried to run away and I was forced to shoot you.”

“So, you like them dead? Sounds just about your speed.”

James shrugged. “I strive for flexibility.”

“You’ll have it, when Azuka pulls your spine out through your ass.”

James blinked at mention of his master’s name, but never lost his mocking smile.

“I do not fear him,” he replied.

“So it’s true, then,” Mandy said.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not just another ugly face. You’re stupid, too.”

That wiped his smile off, finally. James sprang at her, swinging an open hand, but Mandy ducked and back-pedaled to the farthest corner of her tiny hut.

“Where will you run?” he asked her. “I can chase you all night long.”

“I’m betting that’s the only thing you’d manage all night long.” She spat at him.

“I’ll teach you some respect!” James snarled, advancing toward her in a half crouch, primed to spring.

“Or I’ll teach you to sing soprano,” Mandy threatened.

“I enjoy a challenge.”

“Start with something simple, like that body odor,” she replied.

His smile had turned into a snarl, teeth bared and clenched. She could almost hear James growling like an animal as he crept forward.

“You will beg for death before I’m finished with you, American!”

“So, skip the foreplay,” she replied, “and shoot me. It’s the only way you’re getting what you want.”

“We’ll see.” He almost giggled with excitement.

James was so intently focused on his target that he had to have missed the sound of the hut door opening and closing. Mandy felt despair wash over her, until she saw a soldier standing on the threshold, watching her.

His voice was pure America as he told James, “Okay, let’s see it now.”



AZUKA BANKOLE WAS tired. It seemed that he was always tired these days. Patrols and skirmishes, the oilfield raids and guarding hostages—they all took time and energy. Though he had just turned thirty-one last month, Bankole felt as if he was already getting old.

The ganja helped, of course.

Prime smoke, imported from Edo State, Delta’s next-door neighbor to the north, where everyone agreed the best plants in Nigeria—perhaps in all of Africa—were grown. The government agencies tried to eradicate cannabis farming, but nothing thus far had succeeded.

Based on what he knew of history and human nature, Bankole believed nothing ever would.

And that was fine with him.

He had a fat joint rolled and ready, already between his lips—a match in hand—when he heard someone just outside the open door of his command post. First, it was a nervous shuffling of feet, then clearing of the throat. At last, the interloper worked up nerve enough to knock.

“What is it now?” Bankole asked.

A shadow fell across the threshold. Looking up, Bankole recognized Omo Kehinde. He took modest pride in knowing all his men by name, although in truth, there were a number of them he’d be happy to forget.

“Captain?” Kehinde made a question of it, as if trying to confirm Bankole’s identity.

“Yes, it’s me,” Bankole answered, feeling irritated now. “What do you want?”

“I am supposed to guard the prisoner,” Kehinde said.

“So?”

“My time to guard the prisoner is now.”

“Then go and do it. Why tell me?”

“Captain, Lieutenant Okereke ordered me to leave my post,” Kehinde said, standing with eyes downcast. “I had no choice but to—”

“Obey. I understand.”

Bankole understood too well, in fact. He’d given strict orders that no one was to touch the hostage without his express permission, which hadn’t been granted. Knowing that James Okereke had a certain way with women, Bankole had taken him aside, in private, to repeat the order personally. The lieutenant had smiled, nodded and said he understood.

Of course he understood, Bankole thought. But now, the first time that my back is turned…

“I’ll deal with this,” Bankole told his nervous soldier. “You have done your duty and should fear no punishment.”

“Yes, Captain. Thank you, Captain.”

With regret, Bankole dropped the ganja joint into a pocket of his sweat-stained shirt, stood and took a second to confirm that he hadn’t removed his gun belt. There was no need to inspect the holstered pistol on his hip, since it was always loaded, with a live round in the chamber.

It was time to teach his men an object lesson.

Okereke, never the best lieutenant in the world, would make a fine example for the rest.

And what would happen if he had damaged the hostage, against Bankole’s orders? What would Ekon Afolabi say—or do—when he found out? Punishing Okereke first might help Bankole’s case. If it didn’t, well, there was nothing he could do about it now.

Spurred by a sudden sense of urgency, he brushed past Kehinde and out of the CP not quite double-timing, but leaving no doubt that he was a man in a hurry, with places to go and people to see.

Or to kill.

No one tried to intercept or to pester him with questions as he crossed the compound, striding toward the hut that held his one and only prisoner. Bankole felt his anger building with each step he took, its heat evaporating the fatigue that plagued him.

He should thank James Okereke for the swift shot of adrenaline, before his own swift shot ended the skulking bastard’s worthless life.



BOLAN’S BERETTA COUGHED once through its sound suppressor, and dropped the rapist in his tracks. The dead man shivered and then lay still, blood drooling from the keyhole in his forehead.

Bolan recognized the stunned young woman from her photos, but he still went for the confirmation. “Mandy Ross?”

“Uh-huh. And you are?”

“Taking you away from here, if that’s all right.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“It’s getting dark outside,” he said, “but anyone who’s looking won’t have any problem seeing us. Say nothing. Follow where I lead, no questions and no deviations. If we make it to the tree line unobserved, we’ve got a fighting chance.”

“And if we don’t?”

He shrugged. “We still fight, but it may not go so well.”

“Okay,” she said. “It beats waiting for them to come dismember me. Let’s do it.”

Bolan stooped and drew the dead man’s pistol from its holster. It was a Polish MAG-95 in 9 mm Parabellum, with a full magazine and a round already in the chamber. He handed the weapon to Mandy and asked, “Have you ever fired a pistol?”

“A couple of times, at the country club range.”

“This is easy,” he told her. “The trigger’s double-action. All you have to do is aim and squeeze—but not unless I say so or you see someone I’ve missed sneaking around behind us. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“You should have sixteen shots,” Bolan went on, rolling the dead man onto his back and plucking two more magazines from pouches on his belt. “With these, it’s forty-six. Reload by—”

“I know this part,” Mandy interrupted him. “You push a button—this one?—and the clip falls out.”

“That’s it. Ready to leave now?”

“Yes, please.”

Bolan cracked the door and scanned the slice of compound he could see without emerging, then stepped clear with Mandy on his heels. No one was watching that he noticed, and the shadowed tree line beckoned to him, forty yards or less from where he stood.

Without another word, he moved in that direction, walking with a purpose, trusting Mandy to keep up with him. She had the world’s best motivation to avoid falling behind: survival.

They were halfway to the outskirts of the camp before a harsh voice bellowed an alarm behind them. Bolan half turned, saw a soldier sprinting toward them with his pistol drawn, rousing the camp with shouted warnings. Almost instantly sentries appeared on Bolan’s left, racing to cut off his retreat into the forest.

“Change of plans,” he snapped at Mandy. “Follow me!”

She did as instructed, running after Bolan as he turned and raced toward the line of vehicles that formed the compound’s motor pool. A shot rang out behind them, followed instantly by half a dozen more.

Before Bolan could turn and counter that incoming fire, the same harsh voice commanded, “Not the woman! She must not be harmed!”

Which gave Bolan an edge, of sorts. He might be fair game for the rebels, but that didn’t mean he had to take it lying down.

Turning, he raked the compound with a long burst from his Steyr AUG. Mandy was firing at the same time, yelping as the first shot stung her palm and ears, then getting used to it.

Bolan saw one of their opponents drop, and then another. When a third fell and the rest scattered for cover, he called to Mandy, “Hurry up! We’re going for a ride.”

Most military vehicles had simple starter mechanisms, since ignition keys were quickly lost or broken in adverse conditions. Bolan chose a Jeep at random, slid behind the wheel and gunned its engine into snarling life while Mandy scrambled for the shotgun seat.

“Hang on!” he said, and floored the gas pedal, aiming the Jeep’s nose at the nearest gunmen, barreling through the middle of the camp to reach the only access road beyond.




CHAPTER FOUR


In a rush of panic, Azuka Bankole forgot his own orders and those he’d received from his commander. He tracked the speeding Jeep with his pistol, rapid-firing round after round toward its tires, then the driver, praying for a lucky shot to stop the fleeing vehicle.

Around him, every soldier with a weapon followed his example, laying down a storm of fire that somehow failed to halt the Jeep. How was it possible?

His parents might have said that forest demons were responsible. Bankole had abandoned superstition as a child—or thought he had, at least—and reckoned careless shooting was responsible. He had been taught to squeeze a trigger, not to jerk it, but the lessons learned while practicing on lifeless stationary targets were too easily forgotten in the heat of combat.

Bankole’s pistol slide locked open on a smoking chamber, and he dropped the empty magazine, groping for a replacement from his gun belt. By the time he found it, the Jeep was out of sight, vanished into the dark maw of the forest road that granted access to the camp for vehicles.

Behind it lay chaos.

The Jeep had flattened several of Bankole’s soldiers, and at least two of their tents. From one, a man’s pained voice called out for help. Others, still fit and frantic, had begun to chase the Jeep on foot, firing into the night.

Bankole strained his throat calling them back, knowing that every second wasted gave his enemy a greater lead. As his guerrillas rallied to him, Bankole was on the move, leading them to the motor pool.

“Go after them!” he shouted. “The woman must not get away!”

Whatever happened in the next half hour could decide Bankole’s fate. If he allowed the hostage to escape, he had no doubt that Ekon Afolabi would demand his life in payment for that failure. If his soldiers killed the woman, trying to recapture her, his fate might be the same—but he could offer the defense of having told his men she had to be caught alive.

Bankole’s only other option was to send his men in pursuit, then flee alone in some other direction and try to escape Afolabi’s long reach. The prospect was attractive, for perhaps two seconds, then his mind snapped back to harsh reality.

What did he know of life outside of Delta State, much less outside Nigeria? He would be lost beyond the relatively small and violent world where he had grown into a savage semblance of manhood.

Bankole could run, but he couldn’t hide.

The only realistic choice, then, was to stay and fight; take apparent defeat and turn it into something that would pass for triumph.

Two Jeeps and three dirt bikes were already in hot pursuit of the escaping hostage and her rescuer, whoever he might be. Bankole leaped into the final Jeep, hammered the dashboard starter button with his fist and revved the engine, hesitating only for a moment while three soldiers filled the empty seats.

“Remember that we need the girl alive,” he said before he gunned the Jeep and followed those who’d gone before.

But did they, really?

Granted, he had orders to protect her, but he hadn’t counted on a bold escape. Bankole knew there was a good chance that his men would wound or kill the hostage, either accidentally or for the hell of it. And what would happen to Bankole then?

A sudden inspiration made him smile.

If anything went wrong, it was the white man’s fault for meddling where he didn’t belong. Who was to say that he didn’t kill the woman himself? If he was dead, then he couldn’t dispute Bankole’s version of events.

Perfect, Bankole thought, plunging down the tunnel of the forest road, his headlights burning through the night.



THE JEEP BOLAN HAD chosen was a rattletrap, but it could move. He drove with the accelerator nearly floored, knowing that he was finished if an antelope or some other creature charged out in front of him. He couldn’t stop short at his present speed, and anything he struck would likely wind up in his lap or Mandy’s.

She was swiveled in her seat, up on one knee and watching their trail for any sign of a pursuit. It wasn’t long in coming.

“Dirt bikes,” she informed him half a heartbeat after Bolan saw the first headlight reflected in his trembling, sagging mirror. Two more joined the chase almost immediately, followed farther back by the first Jeep to join the chase.

“Is this as fast as we can go?” she asked, then squealed as their Jeep hit a pothole, nearly pitching her out of her seat.

“Sit down and hang on!” Bolan snapped. “We’re lucky to have wheels at all, but it isn’t a racer.”

“So sorry,” she said. “But I don’t feel like going back into my cage.”

“That won’t happen,” he told her with more confidence than he felt.

Three bikes could mean six shooters, but he doubted they were riding double. Three or four men to a Jeep, however many were behind him on the narrow road. Wherever he was forced to stop and fight, Bolan knew he’d be outnumbered.

Situation normal.

“You’ve got me at a disadvantage,” Mandy said a moment later. “What’s your name?”

“Matt Cooper,” he replied, using the name on his passport.

“I guess my father sent you?”

“Not exactly,” Bolan said, checking the mirror.

Three Jeeps were back there now. The growling dirt bikes had already cut his lead by half.

“What’s that mean?” Mandy asked.

Bolan shot her a sidelong glance and said, “We’ll talk about it later, if there’s time.”

“You mean, if we’re alive?”

“Well, if we’re not, there won’t be much to say.”

She laughed at that, a brittle sound, cut off almost before it left her lips.

“Want me to shoot the bikers?” she inquired.

“Can you?”

She half turned in her seat again, raising the pistol taken from her would-be rapist.

“Let’s find out,” she said.

She spaced her shots, took time to aim, their vehicle leaving the sharp reports behind. After her fourth shot, Mandy yelped, “I got one!”

Bolan’s rearview mirror proved it, as the second dirt bike back in line veered to the right and plunged into the forest. Bolan couldn’t tell if she had hit the driver, his machine, or simply cracked his nerve with a near-miss, but she had taken out one of their enemies, in any case.

“Good work,” he told her.

“I’m not finished yet. I owe these pricks for—”

Bolan saw the muzzle-flashes in his mirror, ducked instinctively and heard one of the bullets from the lead Jeep strike the rear of his.

“Get down!” he warned.

Mandy obeyed, but only to a point. She peered around the backrest of her seat and raised her weapon for another shot. When she’d fired two without apparent hits, she answered, “What the hell. I’d rather die out here than go back in a box and wait to see what happens next.”

He couldn’t fault her logic or her nerve, but Bolan didn’t want to see her killed by stubborn anger. Mandy squeezed off three more rounds, then gave a little squawk and dropped back in her seat.

“Damn it! I’m shot!” she said.

“Show me,” Bolan demanded.

Mandy held her right arm out to him, showed him where blood spotted the sleeve.

“Call it a graze,” said Bolan. “Next time, it could be between your eyes.”

“They aren’t that good,” she said.

“They don’t have to be good, just lucky,” he replied.

The hunters wouldn’t need real skill until he stopped to fight on foot. And how long he could keep the Jeep on the road was anybody’s guess.

THE GRAZE ON Mandy’s arm burned furiously, but she recognized at once that she had suffered no great injury. Untended in the wilds of Africa, the wound might fester, maybe kill her with gangrene, but that took time.

And Mandy Ross knew time was running out.

She’d maybe hit one of the bikers, and she’d keep on trying for the others, but it was ridiculous to think that she could stop them all.

Still, she’d been truthful with the mysterious Matt Cooper. She would rather be shot in the forest than dragged back to camp, raped and tortured to death. If living wasn’t one of Mandy’s options, she would choose the quickest exit she could find.

It suddenly occurred to her that she could turn the borrowed pistol on herself, right here, right now, and end the whole ordeal. But while she might have done so in her prison cell, short moments earlier, the suicide solution didn’t appeal to her now.

Not yet.

Cooper was some kind of hellacious soldier, it appeared, and while there was a chance that he could reunite her safely with her family, Mandy would help in any way she could.

With that in mind, she craned around the stiff back of her seat again and triggered two quick shots at their pursuers. One bike swerved, but didn’t spill, and she supposed the sound she thought might be a bullet striking the lead Jeep had been illusory.

If she had hit the speeding vehicle, she didn’t slow it down.

More flashes from the Jeep now, and a lethal swarm of hornets hurtled past her, one drilling the Jeep’s windshield between her seat and Cooper’s.

Too damned close.

Gritting her teeth, she peered around the seat and fired again.



AZUKA BANKOLE CURSED bitterly, swerving his Jeep from left to right on the forest roadway, trying to keep an eye on the action ahead. He knew that shots were being fired, and he had passed the wreckage of one dirt bike without stopping, but he couldn’t get a fix on what was happening.

And in his haste to join the hunt, he had neglected to pick up a two-way radio before he left the camp. It was a clumsy error, but made little real-world difference, since none of his men in the other Jeeps had radios, either.

So far, only those in the lead vehicle had traded gunfire with the fleeing hostage and her savior. Firing from the second Jeep in line would put the forward troops at risk, while firing from Bankole’s, at the back of the procession, would be worse than useless.

Flooring the accelerator, feeling every bump and dip along the way as sharp blows to his spine and neck, Bankole gained ground steadily, until his grille was no more than eight or nine feet from the tailgate of the vehicle in front of him. At that speed, if the second Jeep stopped suddenly, collision was inevitable.

But he didn’t care.

If possible, he would have swept the other Jeeps and dirt bikes off the road, giving himself free access to the enemy. His men were good enough at fighting in most circumstances, better still when raiding unarmed villages, but they weren’t trained soldiers in any true sense of the word.

They would do their best, but was it good enough?

He had rushed out of the camp with nothing but his pistol, and its magazine was empty. Swallowing embarrassment, he shot an elbow toward the man beside him, ordering, “Reload my gun!”

“What, sir?”

“My pistol. Put in a fresh magazine!”

The soldier nearly blanched at that, but did as he was told, reaching across the space between them, past Bankole’s elbow and the gearshift, to remove his pistol from its holster. He extracted the spent magazine, then found himself with both hands full until he slipped the empty into his breast pocket.

“Sir?”

“Yes? What?” Bankole snapped, eyes on the narrow road.

“The other magazine, sir?”

“On my belt, for God’s sake!”

“Yes, sir.”

Fairly trembling, the soldier leaned closer, snaking an arm beneath Bankole’s, reaching for the ammo pouches on the left front of his pistol belt. The way he cringed and grimaced, he could have been mistaken for a creeping pervert in a porno theater, risking his life for an illicit hand-job.

“Hurry up, damn you!” Bankole gritted.

“Yes, sir!”

At last the job was done, the gun reloaded, safely holstered, while the nervous soldier wiped his sweaty face with a discolored handkerchief. Bankole almost had to laugh at that, but there was no room in his world for levity this night.

More gunshots echoed down the road, stinging his ears as he sped through the rippling sound waves, but the fugitives were still in motion, still retreating at top speed.

Could no one stop them now?

Enraged, he shouted at the troops who could not hear him. “Aim, you bastards! Make those bullets count!”



A BLOWOUT ALWAYS came as a surprise. On city streets, at thirty miles per hour, it was nerve-racking. At sixty-something on a freeway, it could kill you. Same thing in an unfamiliar forest, when you were being chased by twenty thugs with guns.

The blowout didn’t kill Bolan or Mandy Ross, but when a bullet ripped through the Jeep’s left rear tire, Bolan knew they were in for bad trouble.

“Hang on!” he warned, fighting the wheel to keep the vehicle upright and moving for at least a little while longer. They couldn’t travel far, dragging the Jeep’s tail in the mud and cutting furrows with a rusty rim, but just a few more yards…

“When I stop,” he said, “bail out my side into the woods.”

“You’re stopping?”

“Either that, or slow to a crawl and let them kill us where we sit.”

“So stop already. Jeez!”

Bolan slammed on his brakes and cranked the steering wheel hard-left, nosing the Jeep into a gap between two looming trees. Another second saw him out and seeking cover, slipping the Steyr AUG off its taut shoulder sling. Mandy Ross followed Bolan, then passed him and knelt by a tree of her own, gun in hand.

There was no time to talk about strategy, optimal targets or anything else. Headlights blazed in his eyes, wobbling this way and that as the bikers reacted and tried to avoid the ambush, framed in light from the Jeeps at their back.

They were just shy of good enough. One guy laid down his bike, rolling clear in the dirt, while the other veered off to his right—Bolan’s left—and plowed into a tree.

The Executioner fired at the closer one first, semiauto, one round through the chest as he lurched to his feet and then tumbled back down in a sprawl. If he wasn’t dead, he was well on the way.

Number two had been dazed when his bike rammed the tree, but he came up with pistol in hand and got off two quick rounds in the heartbeat of life he had left. Bolan’s second shot punched the guy’s left eye through the back of his head. The soldier was dead on his feet, reeling through one more short step before he collapsed, leaving Bolan three Jeeps and all hands aboard to contend with.

High beams washed over the scene, bleaching tree trunks and ferns, forcing Bolan to squint. He lost sight of Mandy for a moment, then her pistol was banging away at the enemy. Two, three, four shots in a row, echoing through the woods.

And had she scored?

The lead Jeep swerved from Mandy’s barking gun and ran over the second biker Bolan had put down, pinning his corpse beneath one of its tires. The occupants sprang clear, using their vehicle for cover as the others arrived. If any of them had been hit by Mandy’s fire, it didn’t show.



IT COULD HAVE BEEN a standoff, then, but Bolan didn’t plan to hang around to trade shots with the MEND gunners until sunrise. He’d already beamed a silent signal from a small transmitter on his combat harness to a satellite miles overhead, from which it would rebound to a receiver Jack Grimaldi carried with him.

The scrambled signal came down to a single word.

Ready.

Meaning that Bolan had succeeded in retrieving Mandy Ross, and they were on their way to rendezvous with the Stony Man pilot, to be airlifted from a selected hilltop to the K-Tech Petroleum complex in Warri.

There’d been no way to explain that they were being chased by gunmen bent on killing them, that it might slow them or that Grimaldi might wind up waiting in vain for passengers who never showed.

“Ready” meant Grimaldi would be airborne by now and on his way. Another loop over the Gulf of Guinea, then the run toward shore beneath radar. To find…what?

The ace pilot could wait a little while, but not forever. If they meant to catch that ride, they had to move.

Bolan palmed a frag grenade, yanked the pin and pitched the bomb overhand, across the road and into the trees where his enemies clustered. He hadn’t warned Mandy, and the blast brought a little squeal from her lips, but she recovered and had her piece ready when two of the MEND gunners lurched from cover.

Bolan took the taller of them with a head shot, and was swinging toward the second when he heard Mandy’s pistol popping again, four shots in rapid fire. At least one found its target, spinning him and punching him back toward the trees with an odd little hop before falling facedown.

Bolan left him to Mandy, in case the guy got up again, but she’d already shifted to fire at the other guerrillas concealed in the tree line. Two more shots, and Bolan saw her pistol’s slide lock open on an empty chamber.

That would leave her with one magazine of fifteen rounds, assuming it was fully loaded when he’d pulled it from the dead man’s ammo pouch. He couldn’t help her if she burned through that too quickly, but with any kind of luck, their problem might’ve been resolved by then.

To which end, Bolan lobbed another frag grenade a few yards to the left of where his first had landed, waiting for the smoky flash and cries of pain. Before the echoes faded, he was up and moving, charging across the road on a diagonal tack, falling upon his enemies while they were still dazed and disoriented.

Hoping Mandy wouldn’t shoot him by mistake.

A couple of the gunmen saw him coming, but they couldn’t manage a response in time to save themselves. He stitched them both with 3-round bursts of 5.56 mm manglers, sweeping on to spray the other four still on their feet. Then he switched to semiauto, dealing mercy rounds to those who had been gutted by the shrapnel from his two grenades.

And silence, finally, along the forest road.

Until Mandy called, “Cooper? Are you all right?”

“We’re clear,” he told her, easing from the shadows, back into her line of sight. “Nobody left on this side.”

“Jesus.” She had a vaguely dazed expression on her face as she emerged from the tree line, pistol dangling, asking him, “Are they all dead?”

“They are,” he told her. “And we’re running late.”

“For what?”

“Our lift back to your father.”

“Daddy? Really?”

“I didn’t go through all of this to tell you lies,” Bolan said.

“The Jeep’s wrecked,” she reminded him.

“We’ve got more wheels to choose from,” he replied. “You feel like two, or four.”

“Whatever’s fastest.”

“Two it is,” he said, slinging his rifle as he moved toward the nearest dirt bike.



GRIMALDI BROUGHT a chopper for his second run into Nigeria. There’d be no room to land a plane, and paperwork had been completed—forged, of course, but still impressive—on the whirlybird.

It was a Bell 206L LongRanger, seating seven, powered by an Allison 250-C20B turboshaft engine. Its 430-mile range was adequate, since he’d be refueling in Warri, and its cruising speed of 139 miles per hour would put him over the LZ in two hours and change, if he met no opposition along the way.

And if he did, well, he was done.

The Bell wasn’t a gunship, and it wouldn’t outrun military aircraft if the Nigerian air force happened to spot him, despite his running underneath their radar. At last count, they had six Mil Mi-24 helicopters on tap, assuming they didn’t send one of their fifteen Chengdu F-7 jet fighters to blast him out of the sky with rockets or twin 30 mm cannons.

Either way, he’d be dead, leaving Bolan and his damsel stranded. Which was simply unacceptable.

Pickups were always worse than drops. This time, he’d actually have to set down on the ground while Bolan and the girl scrambled aboard. If they had company, the best that the ace pilot could do to help was wave the Springfield .45 he carried in a shoulder rig and tell them what he thought about their ancestors.

But leaving without Bolan and his charge wasn’t an option. Never had been, never would be.

Only if Grimaldi reached the arranged LZ and saw them dead, beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt, would he return alone the way he’d come. And what would happen then?

A sat-phone message to the Farm, for starters, bearing news that everyone on-site had dreaded from the day they first broke ground.

And after that?

Grimaldi didn’t want to think about what Brognola would do, how he’d react. Whether retaliation would be ordered, or the whole thing would be written off as fubar from the jump.

Who would they even target, in retaliation for eliminating Bolan? Could they pin it on an individual or group of heavies beyond question? Would the scorched-earth treatment help to ease their suffering?

Grimaldi couldn’t answer that, but if it happened, he intended to be part of the first wave.

And then all thoughts of loss and grief were banished as he saw Bolan astride a dirt bike, on the chosen hilltop, with a young blonde just dismounting. Leave it to the big guy to pick up a stylish date.

Smiling, Grimaldi took the chopper down.




CHAPTER FIVE


Effurun, Delta State

Ekon Afolabi often stroked his sparse, red-tinged goatee when he was in a thoughtful mood. This day, pacing his office like a caged animal, he yanked the wiry hairs as if attempting to uproot them.

“Say it again, Taiwo. How many dead?”

“Fifteen, at least,” Babatunde replied. His voice rumbled out of his massive body as if he were speaking from deep in a pit.

“And then, the woman gone, of course.”

“I need to speak with Bankole,” Afolabi said.

“He’s one of those who died, Ekon.”

“Lucky for him. Who is still alive, then?”

“From the camp?”

“I don’t mean from the Lagos red-light district. Think, Taiwo!”

“Sorry.” The huge man looked as if he meant it. “There were thirty-five or forty men in camp. Subtract fifteen, you have—”

“For God’s sake, don’t start doing math,” Afolabi snapped. “Question all of them. They must remember something more about this shambles than a ‘big white man.’ Did he say anything? If so, was there an accent to his voice? Did he leave anything behind, aside from bodies? Can we find out who he was and where he came from?”

“I will ask them, Ekon.”

“No. Send Pius to do it. I can’t spare you here, with this shit going on.”

The lie was intended to soothe his lieutenant’s feelings, in case he worked out for himself that Pius was smarter, more adept at drawing the truth out of people without using brute force as a first resort. Pius would obtain the information Afolabi wanted and report it without stumbling over any bits, forgetting what was most important in the lot.

And once he had that information, then Afolabi could unleash Babatunde to do what he did best.

“It could have been the girl’s father,” Babatunde said, as if talking to himself.

“Too soft,” Afolabi replied. “The only way he could kill fifteen men is by stealing their savings online and letting them starve.”

“I mean, he could have hired someone,” Babatunde explained.

Afolabi paused in the midst of his pacing and beard-tugging, just long enough to close his eyes and offer up a silent prayer for strength. He had no special god in mind, nor any hope of a response, but it relaxed him all the same.

“You may be onto something, Taiwo,” Afolabi granted, having reached the same conclusion within seconds of discovering that Mandy Ross had been rescued. “We must look into that.”

“It will be done,” his chief lieutenant promised.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” the MEND warlord replied dismissively.

As Babatunde lumbered from his office, Afolabi turned his mind to what had to follow in his campaign against K-Tech Petroleum. There was no question of receiving any ransom, now that Mandy Ross was free. He took for granted that there would be no chance to recapture her. The men in charge of K-Tech’s corporate security would see to that, most likely flying her back to the States as soon as she was cleared for travel by a battery of high-priced doctors.

Afolabi had no fear of being charged with her abduction. First, State Security would have to catch him. Then they’d have to prove he was responsible for the kidnapping, which should be impossible. He’d never met the hostage, hadn’t spoken to a soul from K-Tech Petroleum about the ransom and hadn’t touched any of the letters sent demanding payment. Some of those whom Mandy Ross had seen were dead now, and the rest would soon be scattered to MEND’s outposts in the hinterlands of Delta State.

But being free and clear of charges didn’t satisfy him. Failing payment of the ransom he’d demanded, Afolabi craved revenge for the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of the anonymous “big white man.”

Jared Ross might be beyond his reach, at least for now, but Afolabi wasn’t giving up. He would find someone he could punish.

And his vengeance would be terrible.

Warri, Delta State

A LIMOUSINE WAS waiting when the Bell LongRanger settled gently down onto its helipad inside the K-Tech Petroleum compound. Bolan had thought of dropping Mandy Ross at Warri’s airport, but he’d opted for her dad’s home base in deference to its superior security.

“You’ve never met my father?” Mandy asked.

“We move in different circles,” Bolan said.

“Well, sure, I guess so. But I thought, since you were hired to come and get me—”

“Wrong word,” he interrupted. “I was asked to help you, if I could. There’s no payday.”

She fairly gaped at him. “You’re kidding, right? You did all this for nothing?”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Bolan said, and left it at that.

“Thanks, I think. But—”

“No buts,” Bolan cut in. “We’re square. Hit the deck.”

Reluctantly she turned away from him, released her safety harness and climbed down onto the tarmac. By the time she’d turned to face the limo, men were piling out of it. The first half dozen were security, ex-soldiers by the look of them, with weapons bulging underneath their jackets. Mandy’s father was the last out of the car, appearing older in the flesh than in the photographs Bolan had seen, but that was understandable.

Having your only child abducted by a gang of murderers could do that, adding gray hairs overnight—and worse, in some cases. All things considered, Jared Ross seemed to be bearing up all right. His face lit up at the sight of Mandy, and relief was leaving wet tracks on his cheeks as she ran into his embrace.

“You want to do the handshake bit?” Grimaldi asked him from the pilot’s seat.

“I’ll skip it,” Bolan said. “The deal was that we get to use the helipad as needed, with no questions asked. They’ve also got a spare room waiting, when you’re ready. Carte blanche at the cafeteria.”

“Be still my heart,” Grimaldi said, half smirking. “I’d say Daddy got himself a bargain.”

“Someone else has got his markers,” Bolan said. “We’re just the go-to guys.”

“As usual,” Grimaldi answered. “Wouldn’t it be nice to get an oil well for a Christmas present? Maybe just a little one?”

“And change tax brackets?” Bolan said. “No thanks.”

In fact, he hadn’t filed a tax return since he had died officially, back in Manhattan, several years ago. He also had no income, in the normal sense, but managed to collect enough in passing for his simple needs.

It was remarkable how generous a loan shark or a drug dealer could be when you negotiated in their native language: pure brute force.

Bolan watched Mandy Ross vanish into the limousine and wished her well. Her father lingered on the pavement for another moment, meeting Bolan’s gaze through the LongRanger’s tinted Plexiglas, and raised one hand in some kind of peculiar half salute before he turned away. Bolan sat still until the stretch had pulled away before un-buckling his safety rig.

“What now?” Grimaldi asked.

“You hit that cafeteria, or catch some shut-eye,” Bolan said. “I need to see a man downtown.”

“I don’t mind riding shotgun,” Grimaldi remarked.

“I wouldn’t want to spook him,” Bolan answered. “He’s expecting one white face, not two.”

“I kind of hoped that we were finished.”

“We are,” Bolan said. “I’ve got some solo work to do. Putting some frosting on the cake.”

“Why do I get the feeling someone will be choking on it?” Grimaldi asked.

“Well, you’ve seen me cook before.”

“Okay. But if the kitchen gets too hot…”

“You’ll be among the first to know,” Bolan replied.

Besides the borrowed wheels, he had a chance of clothes waiting, to trade-off with his sweaty, battle-stained fatigues. There should be time enough for him to shower, change and stow his hardware in the drab sedan K-Tech had furnished him, before he had to meet his contact.

As to what would happen after that, well, it was anybody’s guess.



“THERE WAS SOME difficulty overnight, I understand,” Huang Li Chan said. His voice was soft, but no one well acquainted with him would mistake it for a casual or friendly observation.

“Yes, sir,” Lao Choy Teoh replied.

The two men sat with Chan’s large desk between them, in his office on the top floor of a building owned by China National Petroleum, in downtown Warri. A glass of twenty-year-old Irish whiskey rested on the desk in front of Chan. None had been offered to his visitor.

“You may explain,” Chan said.

As CNP’s top man in Nigeria, Chan had no need to browbeat his subordinates. They recognized, to the last man and woman, his authority within the firm, and in the country. No Chinese except Beijing’s ambassador in Lagos had authority to countermand Chan’s orders. Anyone who tried was likely to be slated for a quick flight home and some “reeducation” on the precedence of duty to the state.

“Apparently the kidnapping of Jared Ross’s daughter has been unexpectedly resolved,” Teoh replied.

“How so?”

Chan had received his own report of the event, but he desired both confirmation from his chief lieutenant and more detailed explanation of the incident.

“Our friends at MEND report a raid against the camp where she was held. Some of their personnel were killed, the woman was extracted and pursuit proved fruitless. They are furious and crave retaliation, but confusion handicaps them at the moment.”

“There is more?” Chan asked.

“Yes, sir. A helicopter bearing unknown passengers landed at K-Tech Petroleum’s compound a few hours after the raid. It wasn’t a corporate aircraft, yet it remains.”

“And you find that significant?”

“The timing is…suggestive, sir. Of course, we don’t know who the helicopter brought to visit Ross.”

“You’ve run the registration number?”

The International Civil Aviation Organization, an agency of the United Nations, issued alphanumeric code numbers to aircraft for use in flight plans and maintained the standards for aircraft registration—“tail numbers” in common parlance—including the code numbers that identify an airplane or helicopter’s country of registration. The ICAO’s nearest regional office, serving West and Central Africa, was a short phone call away, in Dakar, Senegal.

“I have, sir,” Teoh confirmed. “The ‘J5’ prefix indicates official registration in Guinea Bissau.”

“What brings it here, then?” Chan wondered out loud.

“I’m afraid we don’t know, sir.”

“But can we find out? That’s the question, eh, Lao?”

“As you say, sir.”

Subservience had its limits. Although he enjoyed wielding power, beyond any question, Chan sometimes wished for aides who displayed more initiative than simple fawning obeisance.

“We once had eyes inside K-Tech Petroleum,” Chan said.

“She was dismissed, as you recall, sir. Their security discovered her communications with our private operative.”

“Yes, a nasty business.”

“Thankfully resolved,” Teoh added, “by her suicide.”

If such it was. Chan had been raised from infancy to trust the state and to deny religion in all forms, but he wasn’t inclined to question a convenient miracle. And if someone in his employ had helped the burned spy to decide that her life was intolerable, how was Chan to know?

“Make every effort to identify the latest visitors,” he ordered. “Maintain tight surveillance on the K-Tech grounds and staff. Inform me instantly of any new and unfamiliar faces on the scene.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And while you see to that,” Chan said, “I will attempt to pacify our Itsekiri friends.”



THE WARRI headquarters for Uroil—with its home office in Yekaterinburg, on the eastern slope of the Ural Mountains—stood a mere two thousand yards from the office building owned by China National Petroleum. Its drab gray walls and modest logo gave nothing away to passersby.

“Bad news for the Chinese today, I take it,” Arkady Eltsin said. “And their underlings, too.”

“Unfortunately, not so bad for the Americans,” Valentin Sidorov replied.

As an agent of Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service—known as the SVR—Sidorov answered first to Moscow, but his present orders placed him at Uroil’s and Arkady Eltsin’s disposal. Eltsin understood that his command of Sidorov had limits, and he hadn’t tested them.

Not yet.

“The Ross girl,” Eltsin said, nodding. “Who was it, do you think? The CIA?”

“I doubt it,” Sidorov replied. “The quality of personnel available to them is scandalous, these days. So much of what they used to do is handled now by private military companies, it’s doubtful they could manage any kind of paramilitary operation. Or that they would risk it, in the present climate.”

Eltsin knew what that meant, as would anyone who’d watched the great United States in recent years. After declaring “war on terror,” Washington had botched the liberation of two nations from Islamic dictators, had let bin Laden slip away despite repeated vows to punish those responsible for 9/11 and had alienated most of its long-time allies in the process. The CIA, while given carte blanche to abduct and abuse suspected terrorists in the guise of “extraordinary rendition,” was kept on an increasingly short leash in other spheres.

“Remember Cuba?” Eltsin asked, then snorted. “No, of course you don’t. You weren’t born yet, for God’s sake!”

“I’m familiar with the history,” Sidorov replied.

“I was going to say that Langley couldn’t manage a new Bay of Pigs nowadays, but forget it. Who do you suspect?”

“No one yet. Without more information, I’d only be guessing.”

“So guess,” Eltsin urged. “We’re all friends here, supposedly. Let your hair down for a change.”

That was funny, considering Sidorov’s buzz cut that left his scalp shining through stubble, but Eltsin refrained from laughing at his own bon mot.

“All right, if you insist. One of the private firms, most likely. There were nineteen in America, at last count, half a dozen in the U.K., and at least one each from Australia, Japan, Norway and South Africa. Take your pick from Raytheon, Gray Talon, Omega or any of the rest.”

“That doesn’t exactly narrow it down,” Eltsin chided.

“How can I? If the individuals responsible could be identified…”

“It would accomplish nothing, I suppose, to ask our Ijaw comrades?”

“I’m told the girl was rescued by a white man,” Sidorov replied. “The Ijaw would not hire one, even if they could afford the going rate for such an operation. And why would they wish to help K-Tech Petroleum?”

“To vex the Itsekiri, I should think,” Eltsin replied.

Sidorov frowned, considered it and shook his head.

“No. They might raid the camp themselves and steal the girl, then ask for ransom on their own behalf. But as it is, they hate white foreigners as much as Afolabi’s people do.”

“They don’t hate us,” Eltsin reminded him.

“You think not? Dam the flow of money to their war chest, and find out how loyal they are to Mother Russia.”

“You’re a cynic, Valentin.”

“A realistic judge of human nature,” Sidorov said, correcting him.

“You think they’re human, then? I’m not so sure,” Eltsin said.

“They’ll surprise you, one day, when you least expect it,” Sidorov replied. “It won’t be pretty.”

“Perhaps, when we have pumped their country dry,” Eltsin returned. “Not as long as they’re in love with money and have something left to sell.”

“I’ll reach out to Ajani and Jumoke,” Sidorov told Eltsin. “There’s a chance that we can stir the pot a bit, after this incident.”

“And see what floats up to the top,” Eltsin replied. “Vodka, before you go?”



“WHY AREN’T YOU coming with me?” Mandy Ross demanded, staring down her father with a measure of intensity he’d thought impossible for one so pampered.

“Hon,” he said, “we’ve been all over this. You know the answer. This is where I work. I have to be here.”

“No, you don’t!” Mandy insisted. “Let somebody else come in and man the shooting gallery. Somebody—”

“Younger?” he anticipated her, half smiling.

“Older,” she replied. “Someone who’s finished living anyway, and doesn’t have a family. Someone who won’t mind being shot or blown to pieces by a pack of murderers.”

“I can’t just cut and run,” Ross said.

“Oh, wait—I know this one. Because it isn’t manly, right? I’ve got a news flash for you, Dad. Even Dirty Harry knew when to quit. A man should know his limitations.”

That made him bristle. “Are you saying I’ve reached mine?”

“That’s right!” she said. “For this place, here and now, I am. There’s nothing in this country worth your life. The money doesn’t matter.”

“You say that because you’ve always had it,” he replied.

“I’ve always had you, too. Ask me which one I’d rather do without.”

“Mandy, this trouble should be settled soon.”

“Oh, sure. And it’s been going on how long, now? Since the sixties? We learn history at Vassar, Dad. I’ve learned that nothing ever changes for the better here.”

“It may surprise you.”

“With your funeral?”

Ross felt his irritation slipping over into anger.

“That’s enough!” he snapped. “You’re on the jet in one hour and out of here, even if Clint has to hog-tie you. Got it?”

“Right, then.” He couldn’t tell if her eyes were glassy with anger or brimming with tears. “Will you at least send Cooper with me?”

“Who?”

“Matt Cooper. Jesus, Dad! The man who saved my life? Does any of this ring a bell?”

“Sorry,” he said. “We weren’t exactly introduced.”

“Whatever. Can he drive me to the airport?”

“Sorry, no. He’s gone already,” Ross told her, fudging it, unsure if that was literally true or not. “His job’s not done, apparently.”

“Apparently? As if you didn’t know.”

“He doesn’t work for me, Princess.”

“I see. He does a good deed every day, and this time he just happened to select Nigeria. Makes perfect sense.”

“He was referred to us, all right? By whom, I couldn’t say. That kind of thing is need-to-know, and it appears I don’t.”

“I swear, Dad, sometimes—”

“If you plan on packing anything, you need to start right now,” he warned. “One hour till your flight. Tick, tock.”

She turned and fairly stormed out of the office, which was bad, in terms of parent-child relations, but a bonus if it got her moving without any further argument. When she was gone, he buzzed Clint Hamer in.

“All ready, boss?” asked K-Tech’s top security consultant in Nigeria.

“We’re getting there. You know the drill, right?”

“Absolutely. Straight out to the airport, wait until she’s airborne, then straight back.”

“And anyone who tries to stop you on the way—”

“Will wish he hadn’t, while he’s bleeding out,” Hamer replied.

“Sounds fair to me,” Jared Ross said.



BOLAN HAD half expected that the loaner car would be a classic from Detroit, but K-Tech had surprised him. He supposed it stood to reason, after all. When they were pumping oil from five continents, why would the corporate brass care whose engine burned the fuel and spewed its waste into the atmosphere?

So, he was looking at a reasonably new and clean Toyota Yaris, four doors and a hatchback, in some kind of silver-gray shade that he thought should be unobtrusive in traffic. It wouldn’t be the fastest car on the road, or much good for ramming, but Bolan wasn’t planning to enter a NASCAR event.

He needed wheels for pure mobility, and possibly to help him stay alive. If the loaner should be damaged in the process, he’d find some way to replace it.

That was life.

Grimaldi, having taken his advice, wasn’t around when Bolan stored most of his hardware in the trunk. A baggy shirt, unbuttoned and untucked, hid the Beretta 93-R in a fast-draw shoulder rig, with spare mags pouched under his right arm. And just to be on the safe side, he held back a couple of Russian-made RGO-78 frag grenades—the “defensive” model, with ball bearings packed around eighty-five grams of TNT, with an effective killing radius of twenty yards.

Bolan was hoping that he wouldn’t need the pistol or grenades for his preliminary meeting with Obinna Umaru, but he knew that banking on a free ride was the quickest way to wind up lying in a gutter or a shallow grave. He would hope for the best, and prepare for the worst.

He had a map of Warri and an hour to kill before their scheduled meeting at a marketplace on the city’s north side. Bolan decided to spend the time touring his new battleground, and checking for tails in the process.

But first, he wanted to check out the car.

No matter where you went, on every continent, auto theft was a problem. Millions of company cars came with LoJack technology or its equivalent, GPS systems that let the home office keep track of all wheels on the road, for whatever reason. Bolan had no reason to believe that Jared Ross would shadow him, but it was best for all concerned—and Bolan, in particular—if his movements in Warri went unobserved.

Once he was safely off the K-Tech lot, Bolan found a place to park and went to work. He used a simple scanner, the size of a cigarette pack, tuned to the standard LoJack frequency of 173.075 megahertz and found the transceiver hidden underneath the padded liner in the trunk. He took it out, pitched it into a nearby vacant lot strewed with rubbish, and then performed a second scan of the Toyota, running through assorted other frequencies that might betray a second homing device.

His ride was clean.

Now all he had to do was to pass the time until his rendezvous, ensuring that he wasn’t followed from the K-Tech property by either friend or foe.

For in the present situation, either one could get him killed.




CHAPTER SIX


Obinna Umaru was worried. He was early for his meeting with the stranger from America, and while he had taken every precaution en route from his home, he still couldn’t escape a sense that he was being watched.

Perhaps, at last, he was becoming truly paranoid.

It would be no surprise, considering the secret life he had selected for himself. At twenty-three, Umaru supplemented his moderate income from computer data analysis with covert paychecks from Nigeria’s National Intelligence Agency, the State Security Service, the National Drug Law Enforcement Agency—and yes, the American CIA.

That last addition to his list of moonlighting engagements had given Umaru pause, forced him to consider that he might somehow be a traitor to his homeland, but he had finally decided that the rate of crime and terrorism in Nigeria had grown beyond all reason. Anything that he could do to make a difference would be worthwhile, even if it meant working with a group of foreigners.

And if he made some money in the process, why, so be it.

Umaru wasn’t an idealist, nor was he deluded. He understood that the CIA worked first for American interests, and only thereafter considered the needs of other nations. But Yankee interests were generally served by suppressing violent crime, and Umaru had cause to believe that America’s competitors for oil and other natural resources in Nigeria—specifically, the Russians and Chinese—each played a role in the perpetuation of endemic mayhem nationwide.

So he would serve whoever served his country best, within the limits of his understanding and ability.

And he would try not to be murdered in the process.

To that end, Umaru had armed himself with a folding knife and a black-market pistol. It was a Chinese QSZ-92 semiautomatic, exported for foreign sale as the NP-42. Chambered in 9 mm, it weighed 1.7 pounds with its 15-round magazine loaded, and the double-action trigger allowed Umaru to draw and fire without first cocking the hammer.

Umaru had practiced with the pistol until he felt confident that he could draw and hit a man-size target, provided, of course, that the target stood still and didn’t return fire. As for living men with guns, trying to kill him, well, Umaru hoped that he would never have to test himself.

The marketplace was crowded, the perfect place to lose yourself. But by the same token, it made spotting a tail more difficult. Each time Umaru glanced around, he found a different pair of eyes appearing to examine him. Was one of them a spy, sent to observe him, or was he a victim of his own imagination?

Even though he took precautions to avoid surveillance every day, Umaru realized that he could have betrayed himself a thousand times since he became a paid informant of the state. Aside from being seen with one or another of his handlers, there was a chance of leaks from any of the agencies he served. Worse yet, some of the groups were bitter rivals. If one learned that he was talking to the competition, even in a common cause, might he be sacrificed as punishment?

It was conceivable, but in the absence of compelling evidence, Umaru chose to be a cautious optimist. And, in his cautious mode, he chose to triple-check the warning signs of possible surveillance.

Was he seeing the same faces on his trail, day after day? Had there been any indication that his flat was penetrated, searched by experts? Had his car been tampered with, as far as he could tell?

When he had answered all those questions in the negative, Umaru should have felt relieved. But he didn’t. The nagging sense of someone staring at him, breathing down his neck, simply wouldn’t evaporate.

Another test, then.

Picking up his pace, he chose a shop at random, turned in off the sidewalk, ducked inside and found a hiding place among the racks of hanging clothes. A salesclerk watched him but didn’t seem terribly surprised, as if such actions were routine.

If no one followed him within the next few moments, would it prove—

A slender man with stubble on his sunken cheeks entered the shop, jaundiced eyes sweeping the place without appearing to notice the merchandise. Seeming angry, he turned to the clerk.

“A man came in here,” he declared. “Did you see—”

The clerk’s eyes had already betrayed Umaru. His pursuer was turning when Umaru struck, lunging out of the racks with his pistol drawn, slamming its butt hard against the man’s nose. He went down with a grunt, crimson spurting, while Umaru broke toward the street.

And realized his grave mistake just as he reached the sidewalk, with a sudden stirring in the crush of bodies to his left.

He should have used the back door.

Too late to make amends, he turned and ran.



KELSEY DANJUMA knew something was wrong when the target came barreling out of the small shop where Sani Fulani had trailed him. He broke to the west, running hard through the crowd and—could that be a gun in his hand?

“He’s running!” Danjuma snapped into a tiny microphone clipped onto his lapel. A squawk of recognition issued from the single earpiece as he added, “May be armed. I’ll check on Sani.”

That required only a moment as Danjuma rushed across the road and barged into the shop. Fulani was struggling to rise from the floor, flinging blood from his scalp with each shake of his head, while the salesclerk circled around him and yelled complaints.




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